


Dip & Dunk

by Amahami



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Automail, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light-Hearted, Maes Hughes Lives, Unconventional Families, unclear timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:49:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28739778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amahami/pseuds/Amahami
Summary: Roy got his automail hand installed a month ago, and he's not coping well. Until he calls Fullmetal, at any rate, when a metaphorical fire is lit under him.Summaries are hard. The prompts: Maes & Roy; Olivier/Roy. Hurt!Roy; Roy with automail; Roy living platonically with Maes. Fills all prompts.Takes place post-canon. Could be post-03 or post-mangahood
Relationships: Gracia Hughes & Roy Mustang, Maes Hughes & Roy Mustang, Olivier Mira Armstrong/Roy Mustang
Comments: 3
Kudos: 12





	Dip & Dunk

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, look, I wrote a thing! Maybe now i'll get back to All Around Us.
> 
> Thank you to [Shilo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilo1364/pseuds/shilo1364) for being great and betaing this on short notice.
> 
> This was originally a prompt fill for A Thing but i've been banned so. Have this for free I guess.
> 
> Enjoy!

Maes had finally gone back to work (thank _fuck_ \-- Roy was ready to string Maes up like Elicia’s faerie lights), Elicia was at school, and Gracia was at work. Roy was alone for the first time since his automail surgery. 

He waited an hour to make sure nobody was going to be coming home early, then stood at the phone nervously. Not because he thought nobody would pick up the phone, but because firsts these days tended to be excruciating. 

He sighed and picked up the phone. After two tries, he gave up and dialed the operator. 

“Number, please,” the operator said. 

“Resembool,” Roy replied. “I accept long-distance charges.” 

“Transferring,” they said. 

There were clicks and grinds as the call was transferred. 

“East City, number please,” a voice finally answered. 

“SE 2710.” 

A pause, then, “Connecting.” 

The phone was finally ringing. Roy would have slumped in relief if he didn’t have to keep his hand in a specific position to avoid pain. 

“Rockbell Automail, Pinako speaking.” 

“Pinako, hi! Is Fullmetal in?” he asked. 

“How’s your hand doing?” she asked. 

Roy shrugged. “Not bad? That’s all I know.” 

“Keeping up with PT?” Pinako asked critically. 

“Of course,” Roy said, taken aback. 

“Good. Here’s the runt.” 

“-so small he’s ant food?!” 

“Fullmetal, hey,” Roy said, graciously ignoring the unlikely accusation. 

“Mustang?” Ed asked, sounding surprised. 

“That’s me. Just wondering: How did you deal with the pain in the beginning?” 

“Uh,” Ed began, “You got the hand installed last month, right?” 

“That’s correct.” 

“Yeah, Mustang, the first few months are the worst. Worst than the initial port installment, at least for me. I had a shoulder port and a thigh port, though -- I’ve heard wrist ports are worse. 

“I slept through most of my first month after installation, then I cried during every PT session for the next six.” 

Roy grimaced. He’d known what he was getting into, when he decided to get automail as a replacement for the hand he’d lost. 

“Hey, Mustang, we’re lucky -- our stumps were clean cut, so we didn’t have to worry about anything more having to be amputated.” 

Roy shuddered at how easily Ed used the words stump and amputated. They were horrible, evil words. 

“You okay over there?” Ed asked when Roy didn’t reply. 

“Yeah, yes. I am.” 

“I recommend getting a super light foam ball and keeping that in your automail hand to help you regain your motor skills faster -- if they’re always working a little bit, you’re getting better. But also make sure you practice writing with your other hand.” 

“Wait -- _other_ hand? Are you telling me you can’t write with your automail hand?” Roy near-shouted into the phone. 

“Sheesh, no need to yell, Colonel. I am _starting_ to be able to write with my automail, but it’s been six years since I got mine and I’ve been working up to it ever since.” 

Roy cursed under his breath. “Pinako said I’d be able to, and I was relying on that.” 

“She said ‘After a few years, I don’t see why not,’” Ed said. “It’s significantly better than a simple prosthetic though, and once you get used to it, it’ll be worth it. Just… Keep going. 

“Listen, I gotta go. Al asked me to help with _his_ PT today. Good luck, and uh. Don’t give up.” 

A slam, then silence. Edward hung up on him, the little bastard. Ha. 

Roy got up and carefully wiggled his fingers as he walked to his room, which he’d have to share with a newborn soon if he didn’t move out, which was looking more unlikely than he thought. 

He carefully put his velcro shoes on and slipped a plain black glove on his throbbing not-hand, grabbed his keys, and walked out the door. 

It was a pleasant walk to the sports shop, just a few blocks away. When he walked in, none other than Olivier Mira Armstrong stood at the grand display of sabres, inspecting them with a critical eye. 

Mustang flung his hand to his head in a salute, and promptly smashed his forehead with his metal goddamned hand. “Fuck,” he said loudly, shaking his automail hand out of habit and hissing when that made his port hurt fiercely as his hand pulled away from it. 

Olivier shook her head in amusement. “You okay, Mustang?” 

Roy grimaced. “I think so. 

“Good. You need what little brain you have left.” She turned back to the display stand. “What are your recommendations on sabres?” 

He looked around the empty store, expecting her to be speaking to someone else. 

General Armstrong rolled her eyes. “I’m talking to you, genius.” 

“Well,” he began, “I’m certainly no expert, but the Qiyi Shengshou is one of the best. Most Amestrians think the Indrises do it best, but they have nothing on the traditionally made Xingese sabres -- they use an alloy perfected over the last two thousand years that maintains its sharpness better than any other metal I’ve encountered, and they don’t require much work to keep it from tarnishing. 

“And while the Qiyi family would only do custom work, to fit the person appropriately, the Shengshou family saw what we have available here in Amestris and convinced the Qiyis to send us a selection of their combined work annually.” 

General Armstrong stared at him, jaw loose and without blinking. 

Roy slowly turned away and headed to the muscle building equipment, which had a surprisingly large selection of hand strengtheners. He picked up a package of small foam balls of varying densities made for hand strengthening (2,000 cenz! The thieves!) before turning to the intimidating strengtheners made of springs and brass. 

He also needed to pick up the other equipment Dr. Rockbell had recommended, but the more expensive kind -- he’d planned on making his own homemade versions once he understood how they were constructed, but he didn’t have the ability to do much of anything, himself. 

Roy got lost in the shelves, studying the different options, until he felt (!!) something in his not-hand. He looked down: there was a piece of paper in it, and General Armstrong stood next to him. 

“Well?” she asked. 

Roy hurriedly set everything in his left hand on the closest shelf and carefully pulled the paper out of his metal hand. 

_The Llama Renifler, 6 tonight._

“I’m finally saying yes,” General Armstrong said, her face slightly pink. She turned and stalked away, her glorious rear swaying. 

Roy turned and picked everything up from the shelf and hurried to the checkout counter. He didn’t even consider what he ordered until he arrived back to Hughes’ and he set the paper bag down on the coffee table. 

He’d accidentally bought four sets of felt-covered Xingese marbles, all of differing qualities. Of course. 

  
  
  


When Maes got home, Roy was slowly, carefully working one of the better quality sets around in his automail hand, and one of the lower quality sets in his flesh hand, to try to replicate those motions. 

Roy was sweating and his eyes were watering, and Maes grinned hugely. “Roy! You’re doing your therapy!” He hurried over to Roy and engulfed him in a tight hug. “I’m so happy!” He rubbed his hairy face against Roy’s. 

“Hurting, Maes,” Roy croaked. Maes immediately released Roy, smile still on his face. 

“You smell awful. Come on, you need to get showered for your date tonight,” Maes said as he ushered Roy towards the bathroom. 

The Xingese therapy balls ended up in a cup on the bathroom sink. 

“Where’s your date tonight?” he asked Roy, methodically getting out the automail shower kit. 

Roy, used to his best friend’s antics, stripped and started the shower. “The Llama Renifler,” he said as he stepped into the shower. 

“Let me wash your hair,” Maes said. “You wash your body now, let me go get your clothes while you do that.” 

Roy just sighed and did as he was told. 

He relished in the mental space being in the shower afforded him -- he could think without being overly worried about his not-hand, since he wore a washcloth like a glove over it to wash his body, and he could just… relax. 

Until Maes joined him. 

Roy was just scrubbing his legs when Maes stepped into the shower (nude). “You’re lucky you have a nice-looking cock, Hughes, or I might be upset that it’s in my face.” 

Maes snorted. “You say that to all the ladies, _Mustang?_ ” 

“Only the ones that have nice looking cocks. I’m nearly done, just a minute.” Roy finished washing up by wiping the cloth one last time over his genitals, then turned and tipped his head back, into the spray of the water.  
  
He took the washcloth glove off and tossed it into a corner of the shower. 

Maes ran his fingers through Roy’s hair and massaged his scalp, then led him away from the water and washed his hair. 

It wasn’t something he’d admit to outside the Hughes home, but getting his hair washed by someone else was one of his favourite things. 

Once his hair was rinsed clean, Roy stepped out of the shower and dried off while Maes washed his own hair. 

Once Roy was dry, he set about drying, cleaning, and oiling his hand and wrist. 

Maes exited the shower at the same time Roy groaned in frustration at his inability to get a particular spot on the far side of his wrist oiled. 

Maes scrubbed his arm dry and expertly oiled it for him, then went back to drying the rest of himself off. 

Roy put on the clothes Maes had brought for him -- a pair of Gracia’s pre-pregnancy jeans, a dark purple button-down shirt, and, thank goodness, his own clean underpants. 

“We’re home!” Gracia called. 

Roy put his metal hand on the sink as he began putting his leave-in conditioner in his hair with his opposite hand. 

“In the bathroom!” Maes shouted, hopping around trying to get his pajama bottoms on his damp legs. 

A blur of child passed him by and rammed into Maes, who caught himself on the shower curtain, which pulled the curtain rod down onto his shoulder. 

Maes didn’t go down, but he winced considerably. 

“I’m sorry, Papa! I didn’t mean to!” Elicia said, gripping her father tightly. 

“So where are you off to, handsome?” Gracia asked, leading Roy away from Maes, who was distracted by comforting and reassuring Elicia. 

Roy smiled sincerely. “A date with Lieutenant General Olivier Mira Armstrong.” 

“Oh! Look at you go, you sly fox!” Gracia said, bumping shoulders with him. “Would you like a ride there?” 

“Just to the park on 72nd -- I can walk to the restaurant from there. The date’s at six.” 

“Let me take a picture of you before we go,” she said, reaching up to grab one of Maes’ cameras from the top of the icebox. 

Roy rolled his eyes in token irritation and stood at ease next to the icebox, looking to the right of the camera with a smile lighting his face. 

The photo, like the date, developed beautifully. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This was great fun to write the first two-thirds, but the last third was a grind, but I finally got it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you think, regardless <3


End file.
